"It isn't money," says he, growin' pinker.
"Oh!" says I, like I was a lot surprised. "Your usin' the touch preamble made me think it was. What's the go?"
"I—I can't tell you just now," says he; "but I'd like your assistance in a little affair, about eight o'clock this evening. Where can I find you?"
"Sounds mysterious," says I. "You ain't goin' up against any Canfield game; are you?"
"Oh, I assure——" he begins.
"That's enough," says I, and I names the particular spot I'll be decoratin' at that hour.
"You won't fail?" says he, anxious.
"Not unless an ambulance gets me," says I.
Well, I didn't go around battin' my head all the rest of the day, tryin' to think out what it was Rossiter had on the card. Somehow he ain't the kind you'd look for any hot stunts from. If I'd made a guess, maybe I'd said he wanted me to take him and a college chum down to a chop suey joint for an orgy on li-chee nuts an' weak tea.
So I wa'n't fidgetin' any that evenin', as I holds up the corner of 42nd-st., passin' the time of day with the Rounds, and watchin' the Harlem folks streak by to the roof gardens. Right on the tick a hansom fetches up at the curb, and I sees Rossiter givin' me the wig-wag to jump in.